Desert Pleasures
by Senna-lover
Summary: Sakura is a famous chef. Syaoran is the owner of very famous hotels. Syaoran wants Sakura to be in charge of his hotel kitchen. Will they be able to keep business and pleasure apart?


_**Please Read! VERY IMPORTANT!**_

**_Senna-lover _** Hi everyone. This is my first story so tell me how it is okay. And please, no flames. I'm only going to do one disclaimer for the whole story, so here it is.

**_Disclaimer _**I dont own.

Enjoy!

_**Chapter one**_

Her name was Sakura. It was a name that conjured visions of hot petaled flowers, and bought images of sun-warmed meadows and naps in the shade. It suited her.

As she stood, hands poised, body tensed, eyes alert, there wasn't a sound in the room. No one, absolutely no one, took their eyes off her. She might move slowly, but there wasn't a peron htere who wanted to chance missing a gesture, a motion. All attention, all concentration, was riveted upon that one slim, sokitary figure. Strainsof Chopin floated romantically thrugh the air. The light slanted and shot through hr neatly bound hair, which was rich, warm brown with hints and tints of gold. Two emerald studs winked at her ears with a color rivaled with her eyes.

Her skin was a bit flushed so that a rose tinge accented already prominent cheekbones and the elegant bone stucture that comes only from breeding. Excitement, intence concentration, deepened the amber flecks that were sprinkled in the green of her eyes. The same excitement and concentration had her soft, molded lips forming a pout.

The room was warm, the smells exotic, the atmosphere taut with anticipation.

Sakura might have been alone for all the attention she paid to those around her. Here was only one goal, one end. Perfection. She'd never settled for less.

With infinite care she lifted the final diamond-shape and pressed the angelica onto the Savarin to complete the design she'd created. The hours she'd alreadyspent preparing and baking the huge elaborate dessert were forgotten, as was the heat, the tired leg muscles, the aching arms, Tehe final touch, the appearance of a Sakura Kinomoto creation, was of the utmost importance. Yes, it would taste perfect, smell perfect, even slice perfectly. But if it didn't look perfect, none of that mattered.

With the care of an artist completing a materpiece, she lifted her brush to give the fruits and almonds a light, delicate coating of apricot glaze. Still, no one spoke.

Asking no assistance-she wouldn't have tolerated any- Sakura began to fill the center of the Savarin with the rich cream whose recipe she guarded jealously.

Hands steady, head erect, Sakura stepped back to give her creation one last critical study. This was the ultimate test, for her eye was keener than any other's when it came to her own work. She folded her arms across her body. Her face was without expression. In the huge kitchen, the ping of a pin dropped on the tile would have reververated like a gunshot.

Slowly her lops curved, her eyes glittered. Success. Sakura lifted one arm and gestured rather dramaticaly. "Take it away," she ordered.

As two assistants began to roll the glittering concoction from the room, applause broke out.

Sakura accepted the accolade as her due. There was a place for modesth, she knew, and she knew it didn't apply to her Savarin. It was, to put it mildly, magnificent. Magnificence was what the Italian duke had wanted for his daughter's engagement party, and magnificence was what he'd paid for. Sakura had simply delivered.

"Mademoiselle." Foulfount, the Frenchman whose specialty was shellfish took Summer by both shoulders. His eyes were round and damp with appreciation. "Incroyable." Enthusiastically, he kissed both her cheeks while his thick, lever fingers spueezed her skin as they might a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Sakura broke out in her first grin in hours.

"Merci." Someone had opened a celebratory bottle of wine. Sakura took two glasses, handing one to the French chef. "To the next time we work together."

She tossed back the wine, took off her Chef's hat, then breezed out of the kitchen. In the enormous marble-floored, chandeliered dining room, her Savarin was even now being served and admired. Her last thought before leaving was, thank God someone eles had to clean up the mess.

Two hous lated, she had her shoes off and her eyes closed. A gruesome murder mystery lay open on her lap as her plane cruised over the Atlantic. She was going home. She'd spent almost three full days in Milan for the sole purpose of creating that one dish. It wasn't an unusual experience for her. Sakura had baked _Charlotte Malakoff in Madrid_, flamed _Crespes Fouree _in Athens and molded Ile Flottante in Istanbul. For her expenses, and a stunning fee, Sakura Kinomoto would create a dessert that would live in the memory long after the last bite, drop or crumb was consumed.

Have wisk, will travel, she thought vaguely and smiled through a yawn.

She considered herself a specialist, not unlike ea skilled surgeon. Indeed, she'd studied, apprenticed and practiced as long as many respected members of the medical profession. Five years after passing the stringent repuirements to become a cordon bleu chef in Paris, Sakura had a reputation for being as temperamental as any artist, for having the mind of a computer when it came to remembering recipes and for having the hands of an angel.

Sakura half dozed in her first-class seat and fought off a desperate craving for a slice of pepperoni pizza. On her return to Japan, her schedule would be hectic at best. There was the bombe to prepare for the governor, the demonstration she'd agreed to do for a public television... and that meeting, she remembered drowsily.

There was a man, Syaoran Li, who had wanted to have a meeting with her. He owned excellent hotels, Sakura thought without any real interest. He probably wanted her to create some special dessert exclusively for his chain of hotels, something they could attach the Li name to. With a sleepy amused smile she thought, balding, prbably dyspeptic. Italian shoes, swiss watch, french shirts, german car, and probably thought himself unflaggingly Japanese. The image of pizza invaded her mind again and she sighed and determindly willed herself to sleep.


End file.
